


The Necessary Soap Discovery

by thesilverarrow



Series: The Case of the Trouserless Detective and other stories [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Always-a-girl, F/M, Genderswap, Sexswap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverarrow/pseuds/thesilverarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The problem with Sherlock is she can remember some things but not others. The periodic table of elements, the average width of a tire tread, the date of her last dozen or so menstrual periods – these are easy. Her own behavior – for example, whether she's mentioned to him her enjoyment of the scent of sandalwood – she cannot sometimes recall.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Necessary Soap Discovery

After all, it's not as though it's unpleasant.

(Really, if John Watson had seemed unpleasant, she wouldn't have taken him on as a flatmate, Mycroft be damned.)

But this soap… Or is it soap? Maybe a new… No, not an aftershave. Still using the one that smells like _Abies fraseri_.

There must be a WOMAN involved. (Or a MAN? No. Self-identifies as hetero. Too old--no, too forthright, too _John_ to be --) So, a woman, a very secret woman. 

Anyway, not unpleasant, whatever the reason. Reason can wait. Curious, but not dire. (Probably not dire? John is hiding something. John is--)

Sherlock decides to await further data collection, and for things to slot into place in her reasoning. Admittedly, her brain is rather occupied at the moment (a dubious missing persons case and a promising murder-suicide), but her mind does have back burners. 

Her mind, she thinks, is like a very large stove. It's an awkward but apt comparison, so she smiles.

Several times the next day, she brings the problem to the forefront of her mind. There are many tactics she might choose, just as John might use any sort of strategy to determine his answer. To ask him about the soap -- a direct attack of the central problem -- would not do. (Asked point blank, he would undoubtedly--)

"Any dates lined up this weekend?" she asks him over tea.

Less direct, then: seeking evidence of hypothesis. As she expected, he responds candidly.

"What? Not as of yet. Well, so then no, probably. Why?"

She just shrugs and focuses her eyes back on the screen.

Later, as they're slouched on opposite end of the sofa, watching the end of a documentary about grasshoppers, she tries to collect more indirect proof:

She asks, "What happened to that girl you brought over for tea?"

"What girl?"

"Abnormally large feet. Left handed. Used to be a smoker. Apparently does not own an umbrella. Seems to—"

"Normal physical details would be helpful."

"Blonde. Tall. Taller than you, anyway."

"Half the world is taller than I am. But I know who you mean."

"And…?"

"And what?"

"You're not seeing her anymore?"

"I was never _seeing her_. She was a colleague."

"That's not what she thinks."

He frowned at her, but he didn't question her observation.

"Anyway," he said, shaking the thought away, "why do you ask?"

"I worry about you."

"No you don't."

"About your happiness."

"Which is something we define in entirely different ways, as you well know."

"Not entirely. And, really, your love life—"

"Is much like yours."

"Empty?"

"Stunted.

They lapse into silence for a moment, and the voice of film's narrator echoes through the room a little too loudly for her taste.

She says, "You should go for your sinister colleague."

"Sinister?"

"Comes from the Latin for _left_. Left handed people used to be considered untrustworthy. In point of fact, she's not being above board about her—"

"I'm not interested in her."

"But you _are_ interested in someone?"

"What makes you say that, oh fellow wanderer in the barren wastelands of romance?"

He looks amused, maybe a bit smug -- which he knows she hates. 

"Nothing," she says, willing it to be so. For the moment, anyway.

*

The clock reads 05:42 when Sherlock wakes up out of a sound sleep, needing to visit the toilet.

But apparently, she doesn't move slowly enough, numbly enough, to stay half asleep. When she's crawling back under her blankets, her mind kicks into gear, and it tumbles her thoughts into a new reading of the Sandalwood Situation.

_The thing about my legs._

_Oho, not just any woman, then._

_Oh, John Watson_.

It will take her some time to figure out what to do about that. (Her heart trips into a faster beat, but she breathes in and out slowly, once, twice, three times – and it passes.) In the meantime, she thinks she should pay close attention. She must. He's lucky she's caught on, or else the combination of her selective attention and his subtlety would be disastrous. 

(Perhaps it's already been disastrous. Perhaps it predates the Trousers Incident. And then what? No matter. Certainty on causes is immaterial to rectifying the current problem. Must operate with present data rather than extrapolate from the past.)

So she begins a somewhat untidy mental list.

_Day -2 new soap – sandalwood?_

Some men do not know how to apply eau de cologne. John is not one of them. He knows not to use cologne in the first place. Therefore, she didn't notice the change in his smell until two days ago when he reached over her to take up the newspaper. Then there it was: new scent, eventually identified (confirmed: bathroom) as new soap, specifically sandalwood. 

(John now smells like wide open spaces and sweat drying on skin in the heat of the day and questions with elusive but intriguing answers, and she knows that doesn't make sense, not literally, but nevertheless…)

The problem with Sherlock is she can remember some things but not others. The periodic table of elements, the average width of a tire tread, the date of her last dozen or so menstrual periods – these are easy. Her own behavior – for example, whether she's mentioned to him her enjoyment of the scent of sandalwood – she cannot sometimes recall. 

(It's also possible she didn't enjoy sandalwood until now. Distressing, that.)

_Day +1 listened to results of experiment_

Sherlock has proven to herself through informal observation that John does not care about her experiments unless they involve liquid chemicals. (Cartoon notions of mad scientists. Things he doesn't already have a handle on. Seen enough stray body parts in Afghanistan.) Yet John actually turns off the telly when she launches into a description of her latest survey into the decomposition of kidneys in fresh versus salt water. 

Later that night, while he's reading one _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_ for what must be at least the third time, she asks him, "Did you ever want to experiment during medical school? Maybe cure disease or develop a new procedure?"

He shakes his head (always trying to shake off confusion at her shifts of thought – perhaps that works?) and, without even looking up from his book, says, "What, now?"

"You show no interest in my medical experiments."

Now, he holds his place with his fingers and turns his attention to her. 

"I studied medicine to help people, not to…" He makes his usual hand gesture that denotes one of her messy or noisy experiments. (He thinks it looks like an explosion, but it seems more like magician she saw at age nine. Smoke can't hide the logical realization that it was in his hands all along. For heaven's sake.)

It occurs to her that he does indeed identify her work as relating to his. Medical, definitely, but he sees no purpose in—

"There are various ways of, as you say, helping people," she says. Increasing general knowledge. Determining timelines and causes of death. Very rarely, finding perpetrators of crimes.

He apparently senses some kind of anxiety in her response, because he actually puts the bookmark in his book now, and his expression softens, takes her in. She likes it when he sometimes folds her into what he's saying, even if he's treating her like a three-headed alien being who does not understand earthlings. She understands earthlings just fine. Well, she's acquainted with their behavior, anyway. Understanding is an imprecise term for something she's not sure it's ever possible to do with other people. For anyone.

"I know that," he says. 

She doesn't pick up the threads of the conversation to continue, but apparently John finds that he must.

"I had a friend in medical school," he says, "who became a coroner." He waits until she looks up at him before he continues. "Some of our mates thought he was maybe just a creeper, or else too awkward to deal with people, but it wasn't that. He truly wanted to help people, so much that he had a hard time dealing them being in pain."

"People who have lost someone are often in pain."

"Not that kind of pain."

She nods, and then she tells him something she's never told anyone before:

"I only say that because it's why I didn't become a mortician."

"What?"

"I once went through a phase where I tried to embarrass and horrify my brother at every opportunity."

He chuckles, saying, "Once."

She rolls her eyes. 

He returns to his question: "Why did you…?"

"Because I can do it. Many cannot. In our culture, we no longer come into contact with death. I'm not afraid of it, generally, and, as you know, bodies rarely disgust me. When they do, I am not mentally undone by it."

"So you wanted to embalm people and all the rest?"

"There are worse things than a dead body."

He nods, clearly not quite understanding but at least not looking at her like she's a bit scary. She doesn't feel scary. No. It's peaceful, grave (no pun intended). To be the last person to examine a unique model of the organic machine…

"You didn't want to deal with the families," he says.

"Actually, I did want to speak with the families. Despite what you might think, I am capable of learning social conventions, and you would be surprised how many people appreciate frankness when they've lost someone. But I couldn't do both things. Not literally, I mean. Mentally."

"Emotionally?"

"Perhaps." (Yes, she thinks.)

After a pause, he says, "Anyway, you'd be bored out of your mind."

"I know," she replies. Because in the end, at the end, every body is the same, and there is no data about the spirit. 

(If she thought the paranormal enthusiast community could maintain some kind of scientific rigor, she'd travel the world ghost hunting. There are logical explanations. Doesn't make things less marvelous or miraculous, just organic. But they are the silliest of wankers. The lot of them.)

Apparently, John finds the conversation satisfactorily resolved, but she spends the rest of the evening thinking about beginnings and ends and the intersection between thinking and feeling. She thinks he might be interested in her conclusions, but she doesn't share them. It's enough to know that she could.

_Day +5 or +6 brought from surgery: gall stone of absurd diameter_

_Day +9 forced me to nap in bed (so sofa wouldn't twist my neck)_

_Day +13 rearranged parlor_

She wants to use this new, streamlined work space he's created, but unfortunately, sometimes she needs clutter to think. 

(Perhaps this quandary about John's behavior can clutter her thoughts? Yes, it's most definitely attempting to boil over. Good that she's monitoring it more actively.)

The kitchen, she decides, can be an alternate location. If she needs one. 

She tries not to need one. After all, this new configuration has its benefits. For one, he's placed her by the street-facing window, to see the people swirling about. Why has it never occurred to her to move the sofa?

After several days of behaviors that indicate his knowledge of her or his solicitude of her needs and feelings, he begins to actively do things he believes she will react positively to. (Based on what? Having gauged her responses in the past? Or ongoing investigation?)

For example:

_Day +15 and +18 wears uncharacteristic color scheme, apparently new clothes (knows this is my favorite color? knows he looks striking and acts more assertive in red?)_

On day +19, she decides to experiment by revealing a weakness to see if he will exploit it. It's always strangely pleasing when he unapologetically makes use of his knowledge of her. Even when it's not in the least surprising, it feels surprising anyway. (Curious: same behavior from Mycroft is irritating. Require control group. Lestrade? Potential evidence: Rather more attractive when attempting to manipulate me with a phony drug bust…)

It's painfully easy. She gazes wistfully at his toast and jam, and he gives it to her. She mentions that she might like to get out of the flat for the afternoon, and he suggests a trip to her favorite museum. Such behavior ensues for three days before she's bored. 

Apparently, he's bored, too. On day +21, things return to normal. No patience for her refusal to wash her own tea cups, no tolerance of her incessant dart throwing in the sitting room, no attempt to draw her into conversation about her work. It's frankly annoying, and more than a bit confusing.

Especially since he is still using the sandalwood soap. There is a new normal in the flat. It feels very much like the old normal, except for how Sherlock is suddenly somewhat…wobbly when John is in the room with her. Sometimes, even when he isn't.

*

The evening of day +21, Sherlock marches into the flat after a fruitless and not at all helpfully distracting trip to the Yard and announces, "I know that you know that I know."

"Hmm?" He's on the sofa, reading a magazine.

"You've stopped humoring me."

Without even glancing up at her, he does an impressive but ultimately inadequate job of looking confused. "I do nothing but humor you."

"When did you know? When I appeared to want marmalade, which I hate? When I let you draw me a bath I didn't take?"

He puts the magazine down, smiling cautiously. "When did _you_ know, then?"

"Know what?"

"Exactly."

"It doesn't matter when."

"No?"

"You didn't have to do these things."

"I know I didn't. I just wanted to."

She sighs. (Proving a stupid point, re: Trousers Incident? Believes I must be coaxed like a—

Coaxed for what? LINGERING QUESTION still unanswered.)

She says, "I mean to say, whatever your reasoning, your motive was clear, but your actions were unnecessary. I already find you pleasing to be around, and my apartment and life are already better with you in them."

He makes no response for a moment, then he simply says, "I hope so."

"But that's not the motive."

"Not entirely."

"So…"

"Maybe I wanted to see if you would notice."

"Of course I did."

"There is no _of course_ with you."

"But it's true."

"Why?"

Because you are John, she thinks, and she realizes she's never bothered to deconstruct his Johnness. 

(He likes her. She is happy when she comes home and he's there waiting. He shoots well. His eyes crinkle. She took away his limp. He thinks in a completely alien way. He takes too much sugar in his tea. He is not afraid of the human ear in the freezer. He is soft and hard at the same time. Fast and slow. Broken and whole. Everything, or at least everything necessary for her.)

Explaining what John is to her makes her head hurt like infinity. Not mathematical infinity but chronological forever. That's it: he feels like he's always been here. Of course she'd notice him. The question is the nature of that notice. What is it that he's always been?

She steps forward and places her palm on his chest. Immediately, his hand comes up to cover hers. As always, he feels warm and solid. She tries to quiet her mind, rely on her heartbeat and adrenaline and breathing and other things that factor in when one is considering an irrational thing like emotions. Unfortunately, what comes to the fore is just a series of not-quite-concentric circles and ovals. 

_sun mercury venus earth mars jupiter saturn uranus neptune pluto (but not pluto, mnemonic doesn't make sense anymore, served us nine what?)_

He's still standing there, waiting patiently. 

She takes a deep breath, then her words come out in a rush: "I can tell you the solar system. Well, I can tell you _your_ solar system, the one you taught me. It's still wrong, by the way. They've not changed their minds about the little one."

He grins, his eyes closing for a moment. 

He says, "I'll just have to add in the other dwarf planets, then."

"What are they?"

"Eris and Ceres."

"You should kiss me," she says, and for a second she's not sure where the words came from. 

Then she's sure.

He doesn't appear shocked. Of course not. This is part of the plan. Yes, there's a plan. Of course. Methodical by his own strange method. Stubborn as a mule. Very attractive, that.

He says calmly but firmly, "I can't do that as an experiment."

"I need to test my theory."

"No you don't."

She begins to shake her head, but then she catches the look on his face. 

Her own expression scrunches into a confused smile and she says, "You're certain of the results."

John's other hand braces her neck, tickles just behind her ear. How did he know she…?

"Yeah," he replies, "I think I am."

When he pulls her in close to kiss her, she remembers which Greek goddesses those small planets are. She thinks he might like to know. 

That's really it: she's always been wanting to tell him everything.

His mouth is very serious, and she can feel the kiss down to her toes. (Not just a figure of speech, then.) Her skin's buzzing and her heart kicks up so as to make her hands shake a bit. That's okay. He'll understand. His tongue, after all, already understands her tongue. His body, she's sure, will understand hers, if anyone's can.

When he breaks from the kiss, she doesn't have to say she was right on her theory or he was right about the results. What she does say, though, seems to astonish him:

"For the record, when I said I found you pleasant, I meant that I had long ago determined our potential compatibility, interpersonally, which is a major component of the sexual. A condition of moving into the flat, really. The determination, not the outcome. What I didn't count on having was a reason, a catalyst."

"Oh?"

"I mean, I didn't realize you were a catalyst yourself."

"A reactant, you mean."

She just nods. Yes, he was affected in the reaction. Obviously.

"Also for the record," she adds, "your new soap was not a catalyst."

He gives her a sly smile. "But you like it."

"I do."

"But not the marmalade."

"No. Although apparently for you I will eat marmalade."

"You'll do anything for an experiment."

"You're not an experiment," she says.

"No?"

She grins now. "You are a discovery," she says. "I have discovered you."

"I was always here."

"But that's what a discovery is."

At that, he pulls her face down so he can kiss her forehead. With his hands on her neck holding her fast to him, she thinks she can feel the world, no longer flat, spinning under her feet. Amazingly, though, she is no longer even the slightest bit wobbly.


End file.
